Green Storm
by RealityKeeper
Summary: A boy must decide if his dream or his destiny will save his people against an unjust war. Izuku Midoriya knew at the age of six that, without a doubt, the doctor was wrong. Despite his diagnosis, despite his lack of symptoms, despite the presence of a pinky joint in his toe, Izuku knew he wasn't quirkless. TRANSGENDER MAGIC DEKU, CANON UNIVERSE


The sky looks dreadful.

Wispy clouds float against the clear blue expanse. There's a soft breeze, just enough to ruffle forest green curls and the owner's middle school uniform, but not enough to hinder the sun's strength.

The sun; she's radiant today. Big and white and casting her rays across an almost empty sky and an almost empty rooftop.

He hates her. Izuku Midoriya hates the sun.

And she must hate him in return, he thinks. She taunts him from her untouchable throne, where only the wind can cast her behind clouds. He can't reach her no matter how much he tries — his quirkless body not useful for anything — and she refuses to reach out to him. There's no light in his life; no warmth; no shining illumination to guide him through this lifetime.

The sun abandoned him, and she wasn't the first.

The rusted chain link fence rattles behind him, perhaps a call for him to turn back, but Izuku just flexes his toes over the edge of the concrete prison he stands upon. Four stories. Four stories until he would reach the rocky plateau his school built itself on; four stories and this would finally be over.

Once, his middle school was pure white, a place of hopes and recognised dreams; a symbol of the future. Now, gleams of light reflect off dirty windows below him. Even from here, he can see the occasional crack and fracture, consequences of low funding and ill-mannered superpowered kids. The concrete plastering on the school's outer walls were cracking and falling off, dirt and mold taking refuge in its crevices.

Izuku wonders if all things are meant to be destroyed, eroded over time or corrupted by powers far greater. He's only been attending this school for just shy of three years, yet they share so many things.

He stares once more at the sun, at the blue sky, at the weak clouds. He listens to the leaves rustling together, his schoolmates below him making noise, and finally, the slowly dwindling whistle of wind in his ears.

But then the wind stops, as does everything else, he hopes.

So fourteen-year-old Izuku Midoriya closes his eyes and tips forward.

Four-year-old Izuku Midoriya remembers the heat. His skin clung to his All Might flannel pyjamas like spandex and his normally unmanageable tangle of hair stood out in all directions. But he didn't mind too much. The encompassing warmth and soaking sweat reminded him of his Kacchan, with his sleepy giggles, heated blankets, and whispered shushes.

He remembers the storm. The weatherman had harped on for _weeks_ about how intense this storm would be, and Izuku hadn't been able to contain his excitement.

And he hadn't been disappointed. The thunder set his home into a shutter and rattled his foggy bedroom window. Izuku watched with wide eyes as the lightning lit up the sky and his bedroom, and the boy swore he could feel the remnants of electricity tingling under his skin. But even though Izuku wanted to stay up all night and watch the beauty before him that set his entire being aglow, the percussion of steady rain sang him to sleep.

Izuku remembers the cold chill that had settled along his skin as he opened his eyes the next day.

The biting cold pushed him out of his dreams and into a definitely cold and definitely _wet_ bed. Izuku had sighed as he stepped out of his unpleasant sheets, still half asleep. His All Might socks let out an unpleasant squelch and Izuku finally broke away from the last lingering chains of his subconscious.

One quick sweep with fatigued eyes and Izuku knew something had soaked his entire room. His laundry lay drenched on the floor and his homework was soppy and ruined. The most peculiar thing was the scorch marks that bloomed on his floors and walls like ashen flowers.

Izuku couldn't understand what happened. Yet, somehow, the remaining thunder shuttering from within his veins whispered the answer to the four-year-old.

" _You invited me in."_

He did not know how long he stood there in his soaking and scarred room, asking the voice inside him what it meant. There was no reply of pattering rain and excited electricity, only the frazzled questioning of his Mother and the deafening silence of his Father. Hisashi cleaned up the room quicker than a flickering flame and made a dismissive comment about a crack in the roof before hurrying off to work. The entire ordeal didn't outlast breakfast and both Inko and Izuku pushed it to the side in favour of school and chores and what they'd have for dinner.

The next few weeks had Izuku feeling _alive._

He hadn't heard the voice since that night, but he could feel its presence; could feel it lending him strength. Izuku opened his notebooks, scribbled page-after-page about his quirk. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect before he showed Kacchan.

It was a Sunday night when he finally perfected his hero book and he spent that night sleeping with it hugged tightly to his chest, too excited to even think about letting go even as his eyelids grew heavy and sleep took over.

His happiness did not last till morning.

Izuku woke up sore, unrested, cold. He could feel his hair sticking to something and when he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he felt the same substance smear across them.

He called for his Mother, frightened and struggling to stay still as he heard her run through the halls. She greeted Izuku with a startled gasp and rushed to pick him up from whatever mess he was sitting in, attempting to clean him with the sleeve of her shirt. Izuku listened to how his Mother's frightened heartbeat echoed the rushed patter of her feet as she carried him tight against her chest, and he couldn't help but feel frightened in return.

She finally set him down on cold tiles and cleaned his face softly, murmuring assurances that only confused Izuku. She passed him a towel once he could open his eyes again, then told him to stay and dry himself off before stepping out of the bathroom.

Izuku did what he'd been told, then listened to his Mother call his school through the bathroom door.

"Oh, well, Izuku isn't feeling well, you see?"

The boy shook his head. _No! He felt fine! He would show Kacchan his notebook today!_

Izuku stepped out on tense legs and fiddled with the fluffy green towel around his shoulders. He poked his head out the door and found his Mother standing at the end of the hall, phone pressed firmly to her ear and bare foot tapping incessantly against the floorboards. Izuku watched the muscles on her furl and unfurl, before he darted quickly into his room, slinking through the open doorway without a sound.

He ran to his bed and pulled back his ruffled sheets, but even though it's the last place he had it, his bed remained empty.

Izuku searched around his bed, the empty floor seeming to shrug its non-existent shoulders at his silent question. He looked up and locked gazes with the single remaining charcoal bloom that remained on his wall.

But it felt _wrong!_

There was no tingle up his spine, or warmth in his gut. It was no longer a symbol of power; it was just a stain on an empty wall. Izuku felt the tears that welled up in his eyes at the emptiness in his chest.

 _The storm was gone._

Inko took Izuku to the Doctors that afternoon, worried that the morning's displays were an outburst of a manifesting quirk. As they sat on the bus, Izuku couldn't help but stare at the crease between his Mother's brows, her squinting eyes staring at her phone.

"Mum?" He asked tentatively, "Is everything okay?"

His Mother looked up from her phone with a gasp, quickly plastering on a small smile, "Oh, just trying to get in touch with your Father, dear." She ruffled his curls softly, "No need to worry."

Izuku hummed, and cast it from his mind, not noticing the way his Mother's hand shook as she pocketed her phone.

"You're wrong."

The room was white and clean, like his walls back home. But there he felt comfort under the gaze of his scorch mark. Here, he felt scrutinised, small, _powerless._

"Excuse me?" The Doctor's eyes peered into Izuku's down-turned head, his glasses gleaming under the too-bright light.

"You're wrong!" Izuku repeated, voice stronger, his small hands clenched around the fabric of his pants. He meets the man's expressionless face, eyes quivering with tears. "I have a quirk!"

"Izuku! You can't—!" His Mother started chastising with flailing hands before turning to the Doctor with wide eyes and a bowed head, "I am _so_ sorry Doctor Tsubasa! Izuku is not normally like this!"

Tsubasa stared for a second, then let out a huff of a laugh. "It's all right, Mrs Midoriya, children can be quite the handful." He turned to face Izuku, a fake smile graced his face. "Besides, he's probably just surprised by the diagnoses. Most people aren't quirkless anymore, and I know how excited kids can get about their quirks. Why, my grandson..."

Izuku stared at the chatting Doctor.

 _You're wrong…_

He looked up at his tense Mother.

 _You're wrong…_

He peered down at his feet, at the toes that just dictated the course of his life.

 _You're wrong…_

Izuku goes to his room as soon as they return home, heart heavy and eyes glassy.

Inko stared at his closed door with sad eyes. She didn't know if she should comfort him or leave him be. She pulled out her phone and unlocked it. Her husband's and her texts — they look more like only _her_ texts at this point — stared up at her like they have been since this morning.

 _'_ _Good morning, Hisashi. Where were you off to so early?'_

 _'_ _Hisashi something happened to Izuku. There was ink and ash everywhere in your study. Do you know what happened? Where are you?'_

 _'_ _I'm taking Izuku to the Doctors. Maybe this has something to do with Izuku's quirk? He's about that age now, right?'_

 _'_ _The Doctor said Izuku is quirkless. Where are you? He really needs his Dad, Hisashi.'_

Her bitten and cracked finger hovered over the call button, hope and dread filling her like water and tar. Inko inhaled deeply before pressing the button, gently pressing her phone to her ear. The call tone rang, and rang, and rang.

Then stopped, and Hisashi's voice filled her ear.

 _"_ _Hey—"_

"Hisashi! I've been so worried—!"

 _"—_ _you've reached Hisashi Midoriya—"_

Inko's face dropped, and she let out a sigh before hanging up. She lowered herself into a dining table chair and put her face in her hands.

She sniffed wetly, "Hisashi, where are you?"

Three days later, Inko and Izuku sat at their dinner table, three bowls of steaming chicken curry — Hisashi's favourite — stared up at them untouched. The room was silent, bar the incessant ticking of the clock and the splashes coming from the newly discovered leaking tap. Inko would normally ask Hisashi to fix it. But…

It's too silent.

Inko sighed at her bowl, and, after flashing a mild smile at her son, took a forlorn bite of her curry.

Izuku looked at the bowl placed in front of his Father's seat. By now it would be half finished with grains of rice littered around the bowl in his Father's haste. His Mother would've chastised him half-heartedly, and she'd receive a reply in the form of a mouth full of food. It would always make Izuku smile and laughter would fill the room.

But not now; now the room was silent.

Izuku shifted his gaze to his own bowl. There was no longer steam rising out of it, and the chicken didn't look as tender. He let out a sigh as he brought his chopsticks to his mouth.

Three days with no sign of his Father, and no wind behind his back, Izuku knew Hisashi and his power were gone.


End file.
